Lord Voldemort and the Magic of a Different Sort
by FireOpal
Summary: Lord Voldemort and the Magic of a Different Sort, or A Potted Dark Lord Morning. Featuring fluffy pink slippers, Bambi and other unrelated things. You'll find out things about He Who Must Not Be Named that you never wanted to know...


Hello everyone, again, and welcome to my first parody/humour fic! Please don't ask me where this came from, as I don't really know, but I think some inspiration must've come from a story I read, in the Highlander category, called 'A Smurfy Methos Morning'. Thanks then go to Ekat. But then, this is slightly different, you could say. snigger Ok, disclaimer: I don't own this, because if I did, I would either die of happiness, go out and splash all the money on a better pc, and read fanfics for the rest of my life! But I don't. I only own the plot. I think. First, however, we must interrupt this story with a short break.

**BREAK!!!**  
(Close up on Professor Severus Snape, holding a small, bright red bottle, bearing shiny golden lettering. He's **grinning** (!) and proudly shaking his head to show shiny, greasy hair. (i.e. shakes head like Prince Charming at the beginning of Shrek 2)  
SNAPE: My name is Professor Snape. FEAR ME!! _(scowls wickedly)_ I come to show all you idiots my brand new, money enhancing (for me at least!) scheme - aha - potion, that will give you brilliant, evil locks in no time! Just one application will have your hair greasy, limp and disgusting faster than you can say _crucio_! Now go out and buy it, you snivelling brats, and watch your movie-style hair go like mine (_another swish of the hair) _and gain the evillness you deserve!  
(Twinkling jangly music accompanies a cackled jingle: 'Greasy Gits' will get your hair so evil, in no time!)

**BREAK OVER!!**

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**Lord Voldemort and the Magic of a Different Sort, or A Potted Dark Lord Morning.**

Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named, yawned sleepily, stretching his thin, bony body fully, before glancing around his bedroom suspiciously to check there was no witness to his unorthodox behaviour. It would be most unbefitting of a Dark Lord, one who tortured and killed for a living, to be seen like this. His sleep-filled snake-like eyes took in his personal chambers as he berated himself for his stupidity. It was a large, but warm room, the walls bare stone surmounted with crackling torches (magicked to light when he awoke). There were three oak doors, one leading off into the rest of Riddle Manor, and another, standing ajar, leading to another room of his personal chambers, and the last leading to his en suite bathroom. Even a Dark Lord needs to use the toilet.

Throwing back the thick, large, black and silver covers, he swung his thin legs over the end of his super-large bed, shuffling his feet around to find his slippers, as he rubbed his eyes. He was in a good mood, no stupid nightmares about the old coot and that wretched boy or the Care Bears. Smiling stupidly, he quickly wiped the smile off of his face when he remembered who he was. Honestly, it wouldn't do for him to enter the afternoon Death Eater meeting grinning like a maniac (even if he was one). After forcing the twin fluffy, pink, bunny-shaped slippers on his feet, he pulled himself off of the bed, stretching his nearly naked body, showing his black silk boxers (with the matching pattern of silver Dark Marks and stars).

He once again looked around his room, debating what to do first. His eyes scanned the antique mahogany furniture – a wardrobe containing all of his robes (black), a dresser with large mirror (to practise his maniacal laughter), the bedside table with Bambi patterned water jug and glass. God, he liked that film. Shame it was muggle. Finally deciding to take a wash first to wake himself properly, he stalked to the bathroom, starting the shower with a quick parseltongue word, and singing happily as the water cascaded down his back, praising himself for the soundproofing charms as he sang.

"I hate you, you hate me,

Lets go on a killing spree,

Mudbloods, Potter, Dumbledore too,

I will win this war someday."

Voldemort cackled impressively, as he pictured this in his head. Then, stepping out of the shower, and wrapping a black fluffy towel around his midriff and replacing his feet in the fluffy slippers. He walked into the other room of his personal chambers, humming loudly, and checked the magical clock on the wall. 10:25 am. Nearly time for his Sunday morning ritual. Securing the towel properly, he padded over to the counter of his personal and private kitchen diner (decorated in bare stone, chrome fittings and mahogany).

He approached the muggle coffee maker (despite their evil, muggles made really good coffee), fumbled for his wand, realised he had left it on his bedside table, cursed, walked back and retrieved it, then once again cursed as it turned into a rubber duck. Great, just because he had had a moment of weakness and bought a fake wand from that joke shop, Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, Nagini must've moved it. That damned snake needed to be taught a lesson.

Finally, fifteen minutes later, he sat on the throne-like mahogany chair at his large table, clutching a hot mug of Brazilian coffee (the mug declaring 'World's Evillest Dark Lord'), fluffy slippers and all, and wondered what he was missing. He had his coffee; he had his Bambi mug, ah. Food.

Rising from the chair again, he walked over to the cupboards, opened one, scrambled through it, and emerged a few seconds later, triumphant, and clutching a worn cereal bowl, this time decorated with grinning clowns. It looked like it had been used for years, and like it belonged to someone of about 5. He placed it on the counter, next to the coffee mug, then reached into the muggle fridge (another thing wizards couldn't get right), and drew out some milk. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched into a higher cupboard, and drew out a packet of cereal, cursing when he realised he could've just _accio_ed them. Oh well.

He ripped open the new packet of Coco Pops, delighting in the tiny tinkling noise they made when they clattered into the bowl, then sighed happily as he sloshed in the milk, making the small chocolate rice cereal pop pleasantly. Then, he stopped again, raised his wand, and accioed a spoon from the drawer, catching it deftly as it zoomed towards him. Then his smile changed to a frown, contorting his pale face. Still missing something...

He whirled around, studying the room, and breathed a sigh of relief as he remembered precisely what he was looking for. A small muggle colour T.V. set sat on a far counter, the electrical cord plugged into a small magically charged box, which gave it power. Lucky he had removed the wards around the manor that refused to let in muggle devices. He placed the breakfast on the antique table, and then pointed his wand at the magical box, muttering a quick spell. The television roared into life as he sat down again, grinning contentedly.

Voldemort had always loved Sunday mornings, even back when he was plain, old, goody-goody Tom Riddle. Now he had his coffee, his Coco Pops, and, with a whirl of his wand, his cookies. Leaning deeply into his chair, he turned his attention to the television. And now he had his Magic Roundabout. The twinkling little theme tune echoed through the kitchen, and for once Lord Voldemort was happy. Not worrying about stupid old headmasters, or annoying Boys-Who-Wouldn't-Die, or anything. He had his coffee, his Coco Pops, his cookies, his fluffy slippers, and his cartoons. And woe betide the Death Eater that interrupted him.

**BREAK!!**

(Fred and George Weasley stand, beaming in Hogwarts library, both wearing identical purple t-shirts emblazoned 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' in orange, flashing letters. They have identical wicked grins, and the camera pans out to see an innocent-looking bushy brown haired girl sitting at a desk. They both cover their lips with their fingers, as if to gesture for silence, and deftly move behind her, not making a sound.  
Suddenly, Fred nods at George, and the twins toss a spray of fine, golden powder over the surprised and angered head of Hermione Granger, watching as all the expression on her face suddenly vanished, her eyes fluttered shut, and she slipped to the floor, snoring gently. The twins both laugh loudy, as Fred removes another item from his pocket, what looks like an ordinary muggle biro, and draws on her face. Soon, Hermione is resplendent with flashing mutlicolured lines on her sleeping face, complete with moustache and flashing reddish nose. The twins retire out of reach, and simultaniously throw fine silver sand over her, and she immediatley wakes, frowning at her position, but not noticing the twins.  
Camera refocuses on the twins, who stand off, and whisper conspiratorially to the camera.  
FRED: Hello, my name's Fred Weasley...  
GEORGE: And I'm George Weasley. And we're here today to-  
FRED: Show you our brand new 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' products! First up, we had-  
GEORGE: Sudden Sleeping Spray - great for getting out of a spot of trouble (_winks_), stopping your enemies in their tracks, or just pranking someone!  
FRED: Yes, very useful as you just saw, for putting out a brainbox (_grins_). Next up we had the Multicolour Magic Marker, writes on any surface, any time, any place, any colour! These, and lots more items will be available in a 'Weasleys Wizard Wheezes' store near you! (_both twins point at the camera, then grin again, and with a quick glance behind them at Hermione, disappear in a flash of light and smoke.)_

**BREAK OVER!!**

Now it's time to review! Tell me what you think, please? Pretty Please? With sugar, cherries and chocolate sprinkles?


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